


Makes Me Feel Fine

by poprocks



Series: And I Love You So [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, Exploration, F/M, Past Torture, Team as Family, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, a job gets gross and peter has to deal with it, i have no idea how to tag this, mild mention of body horror, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocks/pseuds/poprocks
Summary: Coming face-to-face with a Baa’lon makes Peter realize that these things look kind of like Terran llamas, just with longer necks and sharper teeth and a few too many eyes. They’re not aggressive, apparently, but when their defense mechanism is that disgusting spit? Oh, you sure as shit don’t want to startle one.So what does Rocket go and do?Three guesses and the first two don’t count.





	Makes Me Feel Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanoodle/gifts).



> part two of the birthday gift for @kanoodle/ **kitandkanoodle**! 
> 
> it's not really explicit; mostly just mentions of them being naked together, so that's why it's not rated much higher than T.
> 
> i just like bickering ok leave me in p e a c e.
> 
> brief mentions of stuff from the last part, but v brief!

The thing to remember about the dreaded Baa’lon beast of Fryn-6 is that this particular dreaded beast _spits._ And when it spits, it coats anyone in the nearest vicinity with one of the stickiest, thickest, and often _smelliest_ fluids imaginable. Peter figures this thing is “dreaded” just because of how damn hard it is to get that fluid off, especially when Fryn-6 is covered in pools of acid, so it doesn’t lend itself to that whole “taking a bath” thing. Frynians apparently shed their skin every two weeks and call that good, so getting stuck with all of that… Baa’lon grossness must _really_ suck.

Coming face-to-face with a Baa’lon makes Peter realize that these things look kind of like Terran llamas, just with longer necks and sharper teeth and a few too many eyes. They’re not aggressive, apparently, but when their defense mechanism is that disgusting spit? Oh, you sure as shit don’t want to startle one.

So what does Rocket go and do?

Three guesses and the first two don’t count.

The Baa’lon is grazing, minding its own business off to the side from its herd, and Peter needs to get around it to the stash of valuables they’ve been hired to retrieve. Apparently, it’s a set of research from a Frynian science team that had been driven out by the Baa’lon herd relocating. Unwilling to retrieve the research and risk the wrath of the Baa’lons, the Guardians were willing to take a seemingly easy job (for once). Rocket complained when Peter insisted they weren’t going to be blowing up the damned beasts, and maybe this is _kind-of-sort-of_ revenge.

The others are observing from a small rise above the researchers’ pack. The idea is for Peter to get down, grab the bag, and haul himself up to meet the others with one of the aero rigs. Quick, painless, easy. 

In theory, at least.

Peter takes a few careful steps around the Baa’lon, creeping through the grass and keeping his head down. The beast continues to munch on the thorny flowers it discovered, and Peter thinks he may actually get by without incident. The pack stuffed full of data chips and holo tapes is within reach, and—

A small rock from overhead falls _right_ onto the Baa’lon’s nose. The beast’s head snaps up, looking wildly around (while above, Peter can hear Gamora snapping at Rocket – _”What is **wrong** with you?”_ – as Rocket tries unsuccessfully to muffle his weird, hissing laughter).

Peter freezes. The Baa’lon spots him.

And he really only has time left to groan, “Oh, _fuck._ ”

 

“You smell foul.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to tell me that.”

“Stop squirming.” 

“I’d like to see you try to hold still wh— _ow!_ Could you maybe _not_ rip my skin off?”

“Your skin isn’t going anywhere,” Gamora says flatly as she peels another strip of the Baa’lon’s sticky spit off of Peter’s shoulder. Apparently, the spit hardens into something wax-like once it dries, and it doesn’t wash away with water alone, which means that Peter has to sit through Gamora yanking the bits of it off piece-by-piece.

Suffice to say, Peter is not enjoying himself.

“God, how much of this shit is left?” he groans, yelping when she pulls off another patch.

“I’m almost finished. This would be far less painful if you would stop tensing every time.”

“Maybe I’d stop tensing if you’d give me a little war _ning!_ ” His voice goes up about eight octaves (that he would adamantly deny) when she pulls off the next piece.

“Warning makes you tense.”

“ _Pain_ makes me tense, Gamora. Jesus Christ, this is worse than that pterodactyl shit.”

“At least _that_ you could wash off,” she agrees blandly. “And they were not pterodactyls, whatever those are; they were preelas.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Flying lizard-bird things. Same difference.”

He can’t see Gamora over his shoulder, but he’s entirely convinced her eye-rolling was just audible.

One last strip of the hardened fluid, and Peter’s skin is free of it. He’s pretty sure he lost a few layers in the process, _but_ what had landed on his skin between his mask and his jacket had all been removed and deposited into a metal bucket to be promptly incinerated. Good riddance.

“Just be grateful it didn’t get in your hair,” Gamora calls over her shoulder as she goes to set the bucket outside of Peter’s bathroom.

“Shit, you’re right,” Peter huffs. “I would’ve had to chop my hair _off_ just to get rid of it. I mean, I could probably pull that look off, but it would be a damn shame to deprive the galaxy of these luscious locks.”

Gamora levels him with one of those thoroughly unimpressed stares, and then jerks her chin towards his shower.

“Get in already.”

Peter goes to start the water, pausing to let it warm up. He tests it with his fingers, and once it’s a suitable temperature, he turns back to Gamora to give her a chance to hightail it out before he drops his trousers.

… Except that Gamora is kind of already unbuttoning her own pants.

“Uh.”

Yeah, Peter’s brain just completely short-circuited. “Dude, what’re you— wait— I mean—“ Words? What the hell are those?

Gamora glances up at him as she pauses with the hem of her shirt in hand. “I’m getting in with you.”

“You’re _what?_ ” _Come a-fucking-gain?_

She _sighs_ – that same, heavy sigh she always has for him when he’s being ridiculous, which is totally unfair, because how is he being ridiculous right now? Gamora, getting naked, and being in his shower. That’s kind of a big deal.

“I handled all of that spit and now I smell like it too. I need to shower, and I might as well do it here.”

“… Naked? Like. You know you shower naked, right?”

Wait, no, he’s not trying to be insulting, but— the idea of Gamora without her clothes, that close to him? Fuck, that’s a lot to take in. He can feel his face heating up, blushing all the way up to his ears. Yeah, they’ve kissed, they’ve shared a bed, they’ve done… okay, some stuff, but they haven’t gotten _completely naked_ with each other yet, so this feels huge.

“Yes, I’m going to be naked.” She stops pulling at her shirt to rest a hand on her hip instead. “If that bothers you, I can—“

“No, no, nope, not bothered. Completely— completely not bothered, not even a little,” he babbles, and oh, god, someone stop him because he’s going to look even more like an idiot in a second.

Fortunately, blessedly, Gamora closes the distance between them and presses a finger to his lips. He immediately stops rambling.

“I’m going to shower with you, Peter, and I’m going to be naked while we do it. Can you handle that?”

A slow, dumb nod is all Peter trusts himself with.

“Good.”

And Gamora leans in to kiss his cheek, and then she’s stepping back to finish undressing, facing away from him.

Peter doesn’t stare. Or, at least, he tries not to, but he keeps looking over at Gamora each time she loses a new article of clothing. Her vest, her pants, her underwear – each thing she drops to the floor reveals more of that gorgeous, smooth green skin. Her shirt is the last thing to go, and Peter thinks he realizes why as soon as she slowly draws the fabric up – higher, higher, exposing—

—silver lines that run down the length of her spine, arcing away with the shape of her ribs. Etched into her back the same way they’ve been carved into her face. He remembers seeing something similar on Rocket in the Kyln, the awkward curve of his shoulders, the knobs and flashes of metal that forced him upright and had pieced him back together again and again.

Torn apart. Put together.

Sometimes, he forgets that Gamora endured something just as horrifying, and she still wears the scars of it now.

“… Fuck.” It comes out on an exhale that’s nearly dragged right out of him, and he doesn’t seem to realize he’s said it until Gamora’s head turns at the sound of his voice. He snaps out of that little reverie, looking up to meet her eyes, and instead of looking stunned, he looks— awed.

That small, crooked smile waits at the corner of his lips.

Maybe it’s that look that gets Gamora to start relaxing. He can see the tension easing out of her, bit by bit, and she finally turns to face him so Peter has the unbelievable treat of getting hit with the full effect of Gamora without her clothes. 

Now he’s _definitely_ staring.

“Shower?” Gamora prompts, lifting a brow at him, and Peter suddenly remembers, oh, right, they were supposed to be showering. Yeah, cool, he can do that.

He drops his pants and tries not to make his excitement too obvious as he climbs under the water, leaving _plenty_ of space for Gamora. She follows sooner than he expected (or maybe he kind of expected she’d back out and change her mind), and he can feel the warmth radiating off of her even under the water that hits them both.

Fuck, she’s _there_ and she’s _real_ and she’s _so fucking naked._ How many times has he thought about this? Probably at least a billion; that’s a pretty safe guess. Too many, at any rate, and now here she is.

Peter has no idea what to do with himself.

Where does he put his _hands?_

Gamora looks up at him with that same steadiness, nothing wavering in her expression. “Are you all right?”

“—all good,” he practically squeaks out.

God, at least she takes some kind of pity on him, because she reaches for his wrists, drawing his hands up to settle on her hips.

_Oh, fuck._

“You can touch me,” she assures him.

“I don’t— I don’t wanna, like—“

“I know.”

But her arms wind around his neck, drawing him down just a bit closer.

“Consider this written permission.”

And with that, she kisses him.


End file.
